


Introspectivity

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smut. Porn. Explicitly graphic sexual activity. Also: flirting, terrible abuse of nouns and throwing money at the cab driver -- aka Eames finds out things with Arthur and they just <i>happen</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introspectivity

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Prompt; _Eames is a strong guy. For all that he can slip into being a delicate blonde thing in other people's dreams, he is far from it, and there is no denying that. Eames could hold Arthur down so easily, in spite of all of Arthur's combat training, and they both know it. So easily. But Eames still just trembles, a little. Just clenches his fingers in the sheets so, so tightly, and whines high in the back of his throat, and takes whatever Arthur is willing to give him._
> 
> 2\. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/withthunder/3766.html#cutid1), September 23rd 2010

There are a lot of words Eames could use to describe Arthur. There is loyal and courageous and intelligent; quick and effortless and wilful. Yes, Arthur is all of those things and more; he's patient and caring and surprisingly fun to be around. What Eames didn't use to know, was yet another trait of Arthur's: intensity.

The Arthur he knows now is all the things above, and then some. He's passionate; the way Arthur feels, how he lets it show, how he _makes_ it show, is such a heady rush and it leaves Eames shell-shocked and awed of being the object of Arthur's passion. He's intense, so intense -- fiery and touch-hungry eyes following the way Eames gives himself to Arthur, the way he gives in, gives everything he has; the intense self-restraining Arthur owns, the self-restrain he has made art of, the self-restrain he has when it comes to Eames; touching, not touching, touching, not touching – it never ceases to amaze Eames how passionate and intense Arthur is, how rare he is, how remarkably _extraordinary_ he is – and how he is everything Eames never knew he wanted.

Eames never thought about giving up his control, giving it up to someone else; someone whom he knows enough to not abuse his succumbing; someone whom he trusts. He never knew he might like it, might enjoy it, might encourage it -- he never knew he might need it. He finds out all that with Arthur.

  
 _The way it happens is Eames tipsy and flirty and—_  
"Irritating. You're irritating," Arthur says. His body language says the complete opposite.

Eames feels his own smile in the tips or his ears, hotly and tingly, and leans closer to Arthur, their noses almost touching, "Is that the best you can come up with?"

Arthur never backs down, never takes distance. Instead he says, "Insufferable."

Eames' smile gets even wider, now hurting his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. "That's it?"

Sparse people milling about on the street around them, some going home, some going lost, everyone going somewhere and Arthur stands and keeps his place, eyes calculating. "Insane."

And that, that makes Eames laugh, puffs of air evaporating in almost invisible cloud between them and his hand finds its way on Arthur's shoulder to get support. He laughs and laughs even when it's not that funny and it must be mostly the empty glasses on the table they left behind speaking. Eames is pissed, wonderfully so.

"Insane and intoxicated," Arthur says, voice tinged with boredom. Eames laughs harder.

As he lifts his head, after making sure his breathing is in order, he realises Arthur's wearing the smallest of smiles, corners of his mouth turned half-way up and his eyes are warm in the chilly late autumn night. It's no revelation to Eames that Arthur is gorgeous – and fine, Arthur looks gorgeous, but it's not his looks that make Eames ache, it's the soul underneath; the person; the _life_ —yet, under this street light, on this godforsaken, nameless street in a town south from yesterday, he's breath-taking and painfully beautiful.

  
 _The way it happens is Eames' hand finding its way from Arthur's shoulder to curve along the delicate shape of his jaw and—_  
There is slight roughness on Arthur's cheek; faint five o'clock shadow that prickles Eames' palm, shooting hot sparkles through his body and along his veins, spiralling around his chest and exploding his in stomach.

Arthur isn't moving. But his sharp eyes take in everything, black pupils surrounded by soft brown flicking on Eames' face, cataloguing and resolving.

"Anything else?" Eames asks, head tilting to watch his fingers moving on the side of Arthur's face; tanned against pale, callused and life-hardened against deceiving innocence.

It would be pathetic and clichéd to say the time stands still but that's what it feels like for Eames. It's as if all the people fade away and the air is electrified and his stomach does somersaults with half-pikes adding one tuck in the end for a good measure and he's done for; spoken for; he's just bloody gone. Arthur is all he sees, Arthur is all he feels. Arthur is all he needs; needs so much it's a constant physical pain – it's absolutely crazy, horrifyingly scary – and it's the only thing he knows anymore.

Arthur.

They stare at each other, Eames' eyes flicking from his fingers to Arthur's eyes and he thinks that if he wouldn't be as drunk as he is, he'd see all the answers he'll ever need from Arthur's eyes, because this, this look isn't something he's seen before. This look speaks of volumes, Arthur's eyes speak of volume; they're incredibly sharp and deep and Eames doesn't know what brought this on, doesn't know what made Arthur look at him, really look at him; look at him like he's something salvageable, like he's something worth giving a chance, like he's something Arthur might actually want, like he's something Arthur might eventually learn to lo—

And Arthur says, "Irresistible," and kisses him right there, warm huff on his face and then it's hot and moist lips breathing sobriety in him, breathing promises and want. Arthur's kissing away every doubt, every misinterpret there might have been, he's kissing Eames like it's all he wants, like Eames is all he wants; devouring and relentless and bruising.

Eames doesn't even think about smiling in victory; he has his hands and mouth full of something better.

  
 _The way it happens is hailing a cab, kissing and kissing and kissing on the back seat—_  
Grabbing few notes — black spots of desire dancing in the vision making the task harder, throwing the money and hastily getting out of the car.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur fumbling with his keys uncharacteristically and Eames wrapping his arms around the narrow waist and—_  
Kissing and kissing and kissing and not making Arthur's job any easier – nonetheless, Arthur tilts his head to give Eames a better access to his neck and the low moan, the low moan Arthur lets out is involuntarily and delicious and so fucking hot.

  
 _The way it happens is the front door slamming closed and Eames leaning against it as Arthur crowds him and—_  
Arthur's taking off his own jacket and throwing it carelessly somewhere behind him, not once looking away from Eames' eyes. The muffled sound the jacket makes as it hits the floor is almost drowned by the swish of Arthur's tie being loosened and Eames finds himself gulping in exhilarating rush of cold and hot and he shivers in anticipation.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur looping and twisting his fist around Eames' tie and dragging Eames behind himself into the bedroom and—_  
He pushes Eames on the bed and rips, Arthur fucking _rips_ his shirt open, buttons skittering on the floor and Eames is round-eyed in his astonishment. Arthur's confident hands run on his skin and he bites his lower lip, thrilling chills running from his neck to his toes and it's the darkened, intense gaze what with Arthur follows his own hand making half-shapes on Eames' chest, letting them glide along Eames' skin that makes Eames give out a manly whimper.

  
 _The way it happens is Eames giving himself up to Arthur and—_  
The flickering surprise and realisation is quickly replaced by something soft, something that makes Eames' chest hurt as his heart thuds painfully, _thud-thud-thud_ , and Arthur's steady hand lands on his head, thumb brushing and tracing his eyebrow for a beat; a quiet contemplation, and Arthur leans down to kiss him. It's gentle and reverent and Eames understands the hidden _thank you_ and he kisses back, moving into the touch, pliant and needy.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur getting rid of their clothes and staying low, pushing Eames' hips against the bed tightly and—_  
Eames, Eames stares at the ceiling, unseeing eyes wide and he thinks there might be an _unnngh_ or a _hnnngh_ or some other unclear pronunciation for an equally unclear word. As Arthur swallows him down – actually swallows, again and again and again, throat closing and opening around Eames' cock – Eames thinks he might have cried out, because the feel, it's something he's never felt before; it's all-consuming and frightening and exhilarating and he's fighting against the need to move, fingers scribbling on the sheet and finally clutching the bloody thing in his fists and he feels like screaming; Arthur's hot and clever mouth sucking and licking and swallowing and Eames isn't sure he's even breathing; tendrils of electricity making him shake, shake in want and need and surrender and the pleasure, it's ripping Eames apart, it's destroying him in the best ways.

He takes everything Arthur gives him. Every jibe, every smart quip, every murderous glance, every soft, inquisitive look – everything; he takes everything Arthur gives him, _everything_ , greedily, willingly, always wanting more and he thinks he could never tire of Arthur, could never fed up with him, because with Arthur, what you see isn't what you get. You get what you see and so, so much more and Eames knows Arthur can be tricky, knows Arthur is tricky, and he knows he's in too deep. But he could never let go – he knew it the first moment he laid his eyes on Arthur. He knew he would fall, knew he would spiral down and never find his way out.

He was right. He is right.

  
 _The way it happens is Eames fighting against coming and Arthur, Arthur taking control, taking control of everything and—_  
Arthur's mouth travelling up; kissing the crease of his thigh, nibbling on his hipbone; hair curling at the ends, wild and ferocious, sweeping along his skin and making him shiver – hot mouth following; licking and sucking marks on his skin. _Owning,_ Eames thinks fleetingly, all thoughts muddled in the back of his head, overpowered by this, by Arthur; by Arthur's devotion, and he grips the cloth bundled up in his fists harder. Arthur's touch is everywhere at the same time, everywhere, and his smell is intoxicating; it's familiar and new, addictive and overwhelming; and the sound of his lips kissing Eames' body, long-drawn, suckling kisses and quick licks by his tongue – not as much to tease as to feel and learn – and his own harsh panting and off-bitten moans, it's all unreal, it's so unreal and amazing and he can't even comprehend any of it, he can't wrap his mind around anything, he can't think—

And Arthur's wicked mouth latches onto his nipple, sucking hard and biting all the same and Eames' back bends up, involuntarily, and baring his throat the pillowcase is cool against his heated cheek, and God, he'd take anything Arthur gives him, _anything_ , he'll take everything, now and always; always, always and forever and ever.

  
 _The way it happens is Eames still fighting against coming and Arthur gnawing on his collarbone—_  
Gnawing on the shape and length of it, stinging pressure swept away by the swirling tongue and warm lips, breathless and rough voice asking heatedly, "What do you want?"

Eames doesn't even think about it as he says, keening, "Anything. Everything."

At that Arthur stops, lifts his head and crawls panther-like, smoothly, over Eames, planting his feet and hands around him and stares at Eames, hard – it's making Eames painfully hard and the need to come is imminent. He bites the inside of his cheek, brutally, and tastes the coppery tang.

Arthur's hair is wild and fluffy, creating black halo around his face, as black as his shining eyes and he stares some more; contemplating, calculating. The sloppy and wanton kiss he plants on Eames' lips a beat later is all the confirmation Eames needs to know they're on the same page.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur above him, eyes half-closed with pleasure as he has one, two, three fingers inside him, slippery with lube, chest expanding and contracting in speeding rhythm all the way to panting and—_  
Face twisted in concentration and it's the best porn Eames has ever witnessed, it's the single most exciting and hottest thing he's seen so far – and he has seen a lot of things.

"Eames," Arthur moans, the hand supporting his weight trembling, sweat glistening on his forehead and throat and neck and Eames holds his hands on the sides, still gripping the damn damp sheet – and his jaw drops open.

Gasping for breath he answers intelligently, "Hnnh?" And Arthur grimaces above him as if in pain, fingers flexing and scissoring inside; about to collapse on Eames.

"Fuck," Arthur says, voice strained as he removes his fingers disgracefully, droplets of clean sweat sliding down on his nose and splashing on Eames' over-heated skin. And then, "Okay, okay," one hand reaching for the rubber on the bedside table, legs shaking.

Eames just watches and tries to earn how to breathe, air wheezing in desperation and his whole body is aching, it's hurting; every limb, every vein, every bone; throbbing and screaming from Arthur's name; Arthur, Arthur, Arthur and he feels so many misplaced feelings, so many things he can't put a name on, so many things he can't really deal with – it's this squeezing vice around his chest, it's this fire in the pit of his stomach, it's the words of affection threatening to tumble out, it's the calmness of giving himself up on Arthur mixed with the frantic, all-consuming lust filling every crook and cranny of his body; from the tips of his sheet-gripping fingers to his legs, from the slack jaw to his painfully hard cock – and he really hasn't, ever, felt anything resembling how he feels now.

Arthur makes him feel, makes him feel _everything_.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur's slippery fingers opening the plastic square, ripping it open with his teeth and –_  
Scooting back enough to roll it on Eames, deft fingers on Eames' cock; rolling lower, all the way to the root and Eames' moans, low and long. Every nerve-ending of his is on fire, it feels good, feels so goddamn good and he's afraid he might actually pass out when Arthur lowers himself down on him.

He doesn't.

Arthur positions himself over Eames, hand steadying and in the last minute, lifts his head to look at Eames. He's completely wrecked; eyes wild and glazed, and he's needy and slutty in the best ways and God, Eames must love him, he really must love Arthur because he wants to blurt it out; he can feel it clawing inside him, like razorblades and knives and other sharp, life-threatening objects, and he bites his lip and whimpers instead when Arthur lunges forward and steals a messy, uncoordinated kiss, and looking at Eames in the eyes, he says, "Hold on," and straightens his spine.

Arthur takes a lungful of air and keeps staring at Eames as he lowers himself, the head of Eames' cock pushing in, in, in, all the way to the gripping heat and Eames can't breathe, can't think, he can't do anything else except hold on to the damn sheet, back arching off the bed.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur going wild, going out of control and—_  
Eames holds on, hands reaching for the bedpost, holding on, holding on for dear life, because Arthur moves up-down-up-down-up-down in a smooth motion and it's all heavenly, it's indescribable; it's Arthur everywhere – tightness, heat and friction, and it's so intense, it's all so fucking intense and how the hell has Eames survived so long without this? How has he – _oh fuck_ – lived with never having this, never having Arthur?

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur riding, riding hard, strong thighs quivering and—_  
Totally owning Eames. He owns every inch of Eames, every fibre of him, and he knows it; Arthur knows it.

"Unnnnnghhh—" Arthur groans, shaking and staying still; muscles gripping Eames, squeezing viciously and God, it's good, it's great and the tingling spreads all over Eames' body, the ball of fire turning into flaming inferno and there's wetness sliding from the corner of his eye and he thinks he might be crying from the sheer pleasure; the pleasure is intense enough to hurt and he feels like screaming, feels like taking the lead, feels like flipping them over and fuck Arthur, hard and fast – but he doesn't, he doesn't even when he could. They both know he could, if he would, and that's part of the thrill, that he doesn't; that he lets Arthur decide, lets Arthur lead, lets Arthur control—

And Arthur's hand closes around his neglected cock, just holding and screws himself down, once, twice and then his eyes are rolling in his head and he bares his throat, leaning back, scrambling frantically for Eames' hand and lacing their fingers with bruising grip. There's Arthur's hoarse shout of nonsense, hoarse shout of relief and he's coming, heat and pressure brutal around Eames, and fuck, Eames lifts his hips once, slides ever deeper and Arthur half-screams, shaking and keening and whimpering, and stars explode behind Eames' eyelids; colourful bursts of shining flashes and his spine is melting, his stomach is melting, his brains are melting and for a moment he's sure he's about to pass out; loud buzz inside his head, the world spinning and spinning and spinning and it's wrecking, it's frightening, it's _glorious_.

  
 _The way it happens is Arthur lying next to him on the bed, catching his breath and—_  
Saying, "Well, then. That was alright."

Eames' brain is still quite slow, endorphins pounding around his temples, adrenaline running through his veins and his head keeps spinning in the most delicious ways. His stomach is a mess, mess left behind by Arthur, left behind _them_ – and he's quite sure he hasn't smiled like this in ages, ever, to be honest, after someone has come messily on him.

He says, "Darling, that wasn't alright. That was brilliance," and turns his head to look at Arthur, his sweaty head sticky on the pillow.

Arthur's staring at Eames, fond look softening his features and Eames feels a bubble of joy and happiness and affection rising higher in him, the level of contentment filled to the maximum, like he's bursting at seams with love and devotion and _them_ , and he continues, "Which doesn't exclude the possibility of perfecting it to magnificence."

Arthur laughs, pure and rare and something Eames wants to hear every day, something he promises to make happen every day.

Eames laughs with Arthur.

  
 _The way it happened was Eames realising Arthur was complex, realising Arthur was intense and—_  
Gorgeous and brilliant and generous and _real_ and realising Arthur was worth it; realising Arthur was worth everything. It happened so that Arthur realised all these things in Eames, as well. It happened so that they dove into it, dove into a relationship, dove into _each other_ – and never regretted it. It happened so that Eames was still irritating and insufferable and insane (and sometimes intoxicated) and absolutely irresistible. It happened so that Arthur took control and Eames kept gripping the sheets and the bedpost and the kitchen table and the living room rug and the shower stall. It happened so that sometimes Arthur was the one who held on to the corner of the mattress or the coffee table or the closet door. It happened so that they always grabbed their hands, happened so that they always held on to each other.

There were a lot of words Eames used to describe Arthur. There was loyal and courageous and intelligent; quick and effortless and wilful. Yes, Arthur was all of those things and more; he was patient and caring and surprisingly fun to be around.

And he still is. He's also awful in the mornings, he's surprisingly quick-tempered and a great cook. He's sloppy in some things, like doing the dishes and he's absolutely fuckable with his reading glasses on. He's cold in the evenings and likes to get close to Eames, because he says Eames is a furnace, and he lies half on top of Eames and shivers, and Eames, Eames lands an arm around Arthur and gives him a quick kiss and starts reading whatever book he's going through out loud, all the way until Arthur's warm again and asleep. He's everything Eames never knew he wanted. He's everything Eames still wants.

  
It happened to happen so that they were (irritatingly, insufferably, insanely and irresistibly) happy.

  
\- Fin


End file.
